


Shirking One’s Destiny

by KJ_Whatsername



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Incompetent Dovahkiin, Lydia Carries All the Burdens, Marcurio Complaining, NPCs Take Over Main Quest, Novelization, References to Video Game Mechanics, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Skyrim Main Quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJ_Whatsername/pseuds/KJ_Whatsername
Summary: If Cesare Trepidus was truly the Dragonborn, it could only be Akatosh’s pathetic idea of a cruel joke. Since the day he escaped Helgen, all he ever wanted was to move on with his peaceful life, but this crazy war-maiden and her sassy mage friend are somehow convinced that he’s destined to save the world.After waking up from a coma he sustained during a dragon attack, Cesare is unwittingly dragged on his prophesied quest. On his way, he meets the emerging heroes who had filled the void he supposedly created by shirking his own destiny—because life goes on in Skyrim, even as the Dragonborn sits idly by.Also Posted on FF
Relationships: Dovahkiin/Marcurio Bromance, Eventual Lydia/Farkas, Past Marcurio/Ambiguous OC
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. The Court Wizard’s Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> To those of you tuning in— First off, thanks for the support! Second, I should let you know that I usually update the quality of my chapters more often than the quantity, so I apologize for the slow story progression, but I hope I can make up for it with rich imagery and good pacing. Lmk~
> 
> I like to write silly summaries, but I swear this is not a crackfic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the two sassiest mages in Skyrim have a clash in the workplace because the Dovahkiin refused to complete Farengar’s fetch quest six months ago. Meanwhile, Irileth arrives, bearing familiar news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of italics may indicate emphasis, sarcasm, or words in Dovahzul.

* * *

_18th of Last Seed, 4E 201—_ _A stranger claiming to be a survivor from Helgen arrived to Jarl Balgruuf’s court, bearing news of the recent dragon attack and calling for aid on behalf of the denizens of Riverwood. Impressed with the stranger’s initiative and feat of survival, the Jarl referred him to assist Farengar Secret-Fire on a task that could turn the tide for his research. The stranger outright refused._

* * *

**Chapter One: The Court Wizard’s Apprentice**

* * *

— _22nd Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201_ —

When the court wizard’s apprentice had accepted his post in Dragonsreach, he thought he had left his days of adventuring far behind in exchange for a lifetime of quiet study. Finally, after over a year of harrowing journeys across the frozen hellscapes of Skyrim, he could dedicate the rest of his days to his long-abandoned arcane research from the comfort of the Jarl’s palace. Or so, he had thought. As it turned out, the _esteemed_ position of Whiterun’s secondary court wizard was a mere pretense for over-glorified mercenary work, with the added responsibilities of a _courier_.

After yet another _job-well-done_ , the roaring hearthfires and lavish golden tapestries of the palace’s grand hall gave the apprentice little comfort upon his arrival. His eyelids fell heavy, craving a few more hours of sleep, and his soles complained of weariness from his latest excursion. As he set foot through the towering main doors of Dragonsreach, he pulled down his hood, revealing wisps of frostbite spider webs veiled over his mess of a ponytail.

His shoulders ached and burned, sore from the cumbersome old _rock_ he had been lugging around for half-a-day’s journey. The artifact bore a small but intricate carving of dragon’s head, overlooking a network of ancient markings that vaguely resembled a map. The stone tablet had been secured onto his back with tightly wound leather straps. Somehow, it managed to chafe the skin by his neck and beneath his ribs through layers of clothing. Beneath the thin fabric of his dark linen cloak, a large splotch of blood was still caked into the damaged sleeve of his earth toned robes, a remnant of his most recent battle.

The apprentice dragged his feet past one of Jarl Balgruuf’s maids, who berated him for tracking mud all over her clean floors. He tried to ignore the judgmental stares of the palace guards through the shadow of their masked helms. Trudging past the opulent banquet table that stretched across the hall, he pretended not to hear one of the Jarl’s brats demanding him to conjure her a sweetroll for what must have been the tenth time that week. He wasn’t a summoner, let alone a cook. Though, he was unwilling to admit that he could bake a pretty good pie, or at least his last patron used to tell him so. It wasn’t until he reached a familiar alcove off the side of the grand hall when he felt the least bit at ease. _Finally_.

The sky-high, vaulted ceilings of the palace extended into its eastern wing, yet its presence felt cozier than the grand concourse, where the Jarl sat upon his throne. Dark wooden shelves and worktables, carved in the traditional Nordic style, huddled all around the tight chambers of the alcove. They were decorated with an assortment of arcane tools and accessories that a mage could possibly require, except for calipers, of course. The arcane laboratory in Dragonsreach was a far cry from the grand libraries of the Imperial City, but that place had become the one constant in Marcurio’s life since he had left the service of his last patron.

Almost a year ago, an overzealous bounty hunter had dragged him out of his sorry state from the cesspool known as Riften. Since then, the pair had traveled together, wreaking havoc all across Skyrim. Between nights of hard drinks and shared laughter, long days of storming bandit camps and hunting beasts had become the norm for the unlikely duo. Eventually, his patron’s antics had led him _literally_ straight in front of a dragon’s maw, time and again. All that trouble, in exchange for his _modest fee_ of five hundred septims. Though in the end, Marcurio would say that his service to that Sheogorath- _blessed_ adventurer was worth every scar and septim he had earned, as it eventually opened his gateway into the Jarl’s court in Dragonsreach.

As he stepped into the privacy the palace’s arcane laboratory, he noticed Farengar Secret-Fire, the court wizard of Whiterun, hunched over his desk with his nose stuck in a tome. Behind him were a couple of filled souls gems, scattered over the exposed pentacle of the enchanting table, unattended as usual. Nearby, a sticky, greenish substance slowly burned to a tar in the bottom of an alembic, filling the room with the sweet but pungent smell of herbs.

“Good afternoon,” Marcurio greeted Farengar in a clear and even-toned voice. “I see you’re overheating that essence of spriggan sap...again.”

Looking up, the court wizard fumbled with the tome in his pale hands, which haven’t been touched the light of day in weeks, before he quickly turned around to switch off the burner on his alchemy setup. Scrubbing that alembic was going to be a pain in the rear for Marcurio later, not to mention the soul gems that would need purifying after that mess Farengar had left over his enchanter.

“Ah! I knew you’d make it back alive,” the court wizard turned back around to receive his apprentice, speaking with his faint Nordic lisp. It was a warmer greeting than his usual savagery, typically directed at the unwanted visitors barging into his chambers. “Did you find the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow?”

“Here’s your dusty old tablet. Now, where’s my reward?” Marcurio said curtly as he set the ancient stone upon Farengar’s desk with a light thud, glad to be rid of his overencumbered state. “By the way, I’d move those soul gems somewhere safer, if I were you.”

Farengar’s eyes widened before he turned his back again, this time to sweep the soul gems off the pentacle. His apprentice wondered how the scholar even made it this far on his own before he came along.

“Excellent. My associate will be pleased with your handiwork,” Farengar replied as he stuffed the soul gems into a nearby drawer. “The matter with the Dragonstone has been delayed for far too long, as you’re probably well aware. And as for your reward, your stipend isn’t due from Avenicci until the end of next week, from what I recall.”

“ _My stipend?_ ”

“Oh, pardon me. You weren’t expecting another sum of gold on top of what you’re normally paid, were you?” Farengar said with his eyes locked onto the ancient tablet that now lay on his desk, oblivious to his apprentice’s indignant tone. “Tsch, mercenaries,” he scoffed under his breath.

Marcurio found it rather hypocritical, considering how his experience in combat, particularly with dragons—the subject of Farengar’s borderline unhealthy _obsession_ —was the main reason why the court wizard took him in. Farengar had been vocal about his unwelcoming attitude towards having his own pupils, often complaining about how they would get in the way of his work.

“Do you have any idea what I had to go through to get my hands on this?” The apprentice snapped at him as he felt his blood pulsing behind his eyes. His lack of sleep wasn’t doing any wonders for his patience, and neither was Farengar’s tactless demeanor.

“Probably delving into a dangerous ruin filled with traps, possibly occupied by bandits, and crawling with legions of the undead—maybe even a frost troll or two, if the rumors are to be believed...” The court wizard replied blankly as he picked up the Dragonstone with the utmost reverence and caution. “I’m well aware. Did you think I insisted on hiring you to polish soul gems and rifle through my books all day?”

“Won’t lie, Farengar. I’ve had my fill of raiding dangerous crypts and chasing dragons when I used to work for that half-crazed adventurer. And I was under the impression that _you’d_ be different,” Marcurio rolled his eyes. His old patron used to tell him that they would eventually get stuck in the back of his head, even more often than his own mother used to tell him as a child. If it were true, he was surprised they hadn’t already done so.

“You know, sometimes, I envy you. Getting the chance to see so many dragons from up close...” The court wizard mused as he nodded in response, seemingly dismissive of his apprentice’s remark. His eyes shifted between the etchings of the Dragonstone and the map of Skyrim that hung on a panel by his workspace.

“And that account you gave me of your encounter in Kynesgrove...” He rambled on. “That must have been a sight to behold. _If_ it actually even happened, that is. You know, I prefer more academic pursuits, but I’d happily join you out there if the Jarl would allow me. Sadly, my work demands that I conduct my research within the confines of Dragonsreach and focus on defending the city from the inside.”

“Hence, why I do all the dirty work for you?”

“Essentially, yes. And the arrangement seems to be working well so far, to say the least.” That was easy for Farengar to say. He wasn’t the one who risked his hide on a near daily basis, delving dungeons for a living. “That aside, did you bring the rest of what I asked for?”

“Of course. Did you expect any less of me?” Marcurio smirked as he pulled a leather bound notebook out of his satchel and softly whipped it onto the desk. Then, he added a small bundle of scrolls, lightly dusted with charcoal, to the pile.

“Good,” Farengar said. _Finally_ , some recognition for his apprentice’s scholarly efforts.

He began to flip through the pages, examining its contents: a sketch of an ancient monument, sculpted in the likeness of a dragon’s dark and unfurled wings; cuneiform inscriptions in the lost tongue of _Dovahzul_ , impeccably transcribed and annotated with insights on each recognizable word; an unnecessarily detailed account on a fight with a draugr; and a recollection of last night’s supper at the Sleeping Giant Inn, followed by an encounter with a suspicious innkeeper, among other things. It was obvious his apprentice took pride in his work, despite being so ridiculously underpaid.

“Ah! And I see you’ve taken a head start on translating the inscriptions on the monument, as well. Albeit, not much of it,” Farengar continued. He appeared to be just mildly impressed. “You know, I never would have guessed you were quite the scholar when I was told of your work as a mercenary. It’s hard to believe I once envisioned you to be one of those axe-toting brutes that would go meandering into my lab, expecting to find the Jarl.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment,” the apprentice responded with a dead-pan look, just barely satisfied with the response. _Gods_ , he needed some rest.

“Very well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get started on trying to decipher this tablet,” the court wizard dismissed him, once again. As Farengar turned to grab a scroll from one of his shelves, he paused with what seemed to be an epiphany.

“Ah, speaking of which...” he started. Perhaps the notes Marcurio had painstakingly gathered from his expedition had finally given him the lead they needed to make progress in their research.

“I need you to fetch my copy of Hela Thrice-Versed’s text on the Dragon Language. The Harbinger said he’d return it by this Tirdas, but it must have slipped his mind. It should still be sitting in Jorrvaskr if my memory serves me right,” Farengar continued. So, it _wasn’t_ an epiphany.

“Can’t it wait?”

“Oh, and while you’re at it, I have some frost salts in the back office that Arcadia has been asking for. Would you be so kind as to deliver them for me on your way? I’m sure she’ll provide some recompense,” he rambled on. Somehow, he just happened to conveniently remember every menial task he could possibly delegate.

“Sure, but—“

“And speaking of alchemy, if you could clean that sludge off the bottom of my alembic... I just remembered there’s a philter I need to brew for this...”

Marcurio took a sharp inhale. _Divines_ , preserve his patience. He was an apprentice wizard, not an errand boy. Although, when he had accepted the position in court, both he and Farengar had come to an understanding that he was an apprentice in title and in pay grade alone. In fact, his arcane knowledge and prowess had far surpassed that level, more befitting the rank of an expert—maybe just a couple of refinements away from being a _master_ of Destruction, even. However, the Jarl had little need for two full-time court wizards, especially when rumor had it that Whiterun couldn’t even scrape up enough funds to bother repairing the city’s walls.

“Do I _look_ like a courier to you?” Marcurio scowled.

“Well, let's see...” Farengar replied with a straight face as he scanned his appearance, up and down. “Travel-stained clothes, worn soles, blank and unintelligent expression... Yes, in fact you do. Now, get to it.”

_Savage bastard_. Marcurio didn’t want to admit it, but Farengar made a point about his appearance. Then again, it was because of Farengar’s damned fetch quest that he ended up nearly mangled by a walking corpse in the first place. As he had battled his way through the Nordic ruins of Bleak Falls, it seemed as if the draugr all across Skyrim had been growing stronger by the day. He couldn’t help but wonder if those corpses sparred with each other in the quiet of their tombs, biding for the arrival of an unwary adventurer.

“Ugh. Well, just for once, try crawling through an ancient barrow into the wee hours of the morning for yourself,” Marcurio retorted. _Dear Akatosh_ , give him the strength and _forbearance_ to keep himself from setting this man’s overgrown sideburns on fire as they spoke.

The apprentice held his own tongue before he could say any further. He was already underpaid and overqualified as things were.

“Oh, very well. I’ll do it. Just let me get changed into something decent first.”

“Good. You're clearly better suited than I am to carry out such menial tasks,” Farengar said with a smile on his face. That was the closest his apprentice ever got to an actual ‘thank you’ from him. Marcurio was pretty sure that the entire court of Whiterun, Farengar and himself included, were baffled over how they managed to work together for that long.

As the court wizard focused his undivided attention on his dusty tablet, Marcurio made his way to the back office to grab the salts and rummage through one of the drawers for his spare robes. If only Farengar didn’t use what was supposed to Marcurio’s drawer to store his enchantment fodder, his belongings would have been a lot easier to find.

Too tired to care, he slipped into a random set of clean, but ill-fitting, mage robes that were obviously not his. As a matter of fact, he had an inkling that the cut of the fabric was meant for a broader-framed woman. Its fine threads were cool and electrifying to the touch, sending a mild tingling sensation from the fingertips to the spine.

The quality was no match with the fortified enchantments on his usual garb, but it would have to do. It was better than having to wear those blood stained rags for much longer. He would still be representing the Jarl’s court on his trifling errand, after all. And to be fair, it wasn’t even that noticeable that the robes were a bit tighter around the waist. Now, all he needed to do was to fetch the damn item, and deliver the other damn thing, and then he could finally take a damn nap—Oh, _how wonderful,_ he had forgotten to write down what he needed to fetch.

“Alright, where am I going, and what am I fetching again?”

Before the court wizard could respond, he was interrupted by a deep, feminine voice hollering from the across the other room.

“Farengar! Farengar, you need to come at once,” the voice called out with a distinctive Morrowind drawl, accompanied by the rapid sound of armored footsteps against the wooden floors.

From the corner of his eye, Marcurio noticed a Dunmer sprinting towards the alcove from the other end of the great hall. She was clad in tarnished leather armor and had fiery, red hair that struck against her sharp features and dark, ashen skin. He recognized her as Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf’s housecarl, though he rarely got the chance to see her around Dragonsreach. After all, if he wasn’t busy cleaning the laboratory or running Farengar’s _fetching_ —in both the literal and the colloquial sense of the word—errands, he was usually out venturing on so-called ‘field research.’ That was Farengar’s preferred euphemism for an outright dragon hunt.

“Both of you! You must speak with the Jarl. Another dragon's been sighted nearby,” Irileth reported, firm yet alarmed. Well, there went Marcurio’s chances for taking that nap. Of course, a dragon would show up near Whiterun, of all places, just moments after he returned to the city.

“A dragon! How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?” The court wizard perked up, as his apprentice had predicted.

“I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you,” the housecarl warned Farengar. “Remember that dragon that we slew by the western watchtower back in Last Seed?”

“Of course! How could I forget such a marvelous sight? Such a shame I only got there once it was already dead. To see a live dragon up close...” The court wizard mused.

“Well, we’ve had multiple travelers and guards report that they’ve seen it coming back to life,” Irileth said.

“ _Back to life?_ ” Both mages repeated with opposing inflections, just moments off unison. Farengar was giddy with intrigue, and his tone was tinged with the slightest disbelief. However, Irileth’s words evoked a distant, haunting memory in Marcurio’s thoughts. Somewhere in the mountains, by a small farm at the edge of a mining town, the vision of a breathing skeletal dragon the size of a house crept into the back of his mind. As if the tips of its gargantuan wings of bone scraped against the hairs on his neck, the same way they had plowed through the long-unturned earth of its ancient cairn.

“It sounds foolish, I know, but it’s hard to deny it with that many witnesses making similar reports of a dragon crawling out of its grave,” the housecarl continued. As her words formed, thoughts of the encounter started coming back to the apprentice, and it began to make sense.

“I believe them, Irileth,” Marcurio uttered as the vision made itself fresh in his memory. “I’ve seen something like that happen once, back in Kynesgrove.”

He had faced and battled with quite a few dragons in his travels, _courtesy_ of his last patron. But none of them compared to the fearsome, pitch black dragon he had witnessed in the little mining settlement.

“Kynesgrove, eh? And I thought you’ve dreamt the whole thing after having a bit too much mead,” Farengar told him. “If it’s true, then we must look into it.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Irileth spoke up. “You two, report to the Jarl immediately! We need to prepare the defense before that dragon decides to come any closer to Whiterun.”

“Once more, into _danger,_ ” The court wizard’s apprentice sighed as he trotted behind his master and the Jarl’s housecarl, up the stairway, into the back gallery of Dragonsreach. At least he didn’t have to run those fetching errands anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own TESV: Skyrim, any of the characters mentioned (except any OCs), or any NPC dialogue that may be referenced above. Skyrim belongs to the Nords— I mean, Bethesda.
> 
> A/N: What’s Marc doing in Whiterun as a court wizard?—It’s his patron’s ex-machina (may go into detail in later chapters). The patron’s identity (based on Non-Dragonborn PC) will remain ambiguous. He/she/they won’t be appearing in this story as an actual OC, except maybe in occasional flashbacks, out of my concerns that he/she/they’ll end up as a Mary Sue in this narrative. Feedback always appreciated, especially constructive criticism!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. The Dragon, Rising Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirmulnir is attacking Whiterun for the second time that year. Irileth drags Marcurio into the fight, and he chugs stamina potions like Red Bull while fondly looking back at his previous adventures. Meanwhile, Mirmulnir learns how to abuse the physics engine and shares a laugh with our hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning— Graphic depictions of fantasy violence, main character’s dark humor, implied angst, and background character death up ahead.

* * *

_20th Last Seed, 4E 201— After being in hiding for millennia, the elusive dragon, Mirmulnir, reemerged since his last sighting around two-hundred and twelve years into the Second Era. He was last spotted by patrols in the Western Watchtower near the border of the Reach and Whiterun Hold, where he was slain by the Jarl Balgruuf’s troops, led by his loyal housecarl, Irileth.  
_

* * *

****Chapter Two: The Dragon, Rising Again** **

* * *

— _22nd Sun’s Dawn, 4E 202_ —

From what he could remember, the drinks at Braidwood Inn had been mediocre at best. They had been nowhere near as stiff as he would have liked for the biting cold, but nonetheless warm and sweet. Marcurio recalled how the frigid winds of Eastmarch howled as they blew against the tavern’s wooden walls. He had settled by the fire in the center of the near-deserted room, weary from yet another ancient Nord ruin explored, much too soon after the pursuit of yet another bandit leader.

He was a mercenary, then, and his patron had been sitting by his side. The two of them had been shoulder-to-shoulder in each other’s warmth, each nursing a mug of hot mead. Somehow, he recalled how the fire had burned brighter as it had reflected in his patron’s eyes. He remembered staring deep into those pools, lit with the embers of zeal; those pair of eyes had always seemed tireless to him.

He could never forget the way they burned with a ceaseless thirst for adventure, even after long days without rest. Marcurio envied that about his last patron. He never understood what fueled the undying drive for danger and discovery that the two of them had never shared. Whatever his patron’s secret may have been, he was sure that it wasn’t stamina potions.

After taking a double dose of the stuff, he already felt the jitters spreading across his body. His mind grew alert, yet the excitement for battle never came to him. As he downed his third stamina potion within the last hour, he nearly choked on the gritty residue that settled in the bottom of the vial. Probably powdered deer antler, he noted. He hated how the draught tasted like a cold, watered-down animal broth, but he needed it to stay awake and keep his legs moving. Without it, he would struggle to catch up with Irileth’s steady running pace.

The Jarl’s housecarl led the westward march to the watchtower with a detachment of guards in her trail, all lined up in a strict battle formation. Among the group of chainmail clad warriors in their faceless helms and yellow tabards, the lone wizard marched along, pushing through his fatigue. The Jarl had ordered Farengar to stay behind at Dragonsreach, _again_. Thus, Marcurio had to report to the scene on his master’s behalf, both as a scholar and a soldier. Because defending the city from a _dragon_ just wouldn’t be enough, and Farengar absolutely _needed_ a detailed account of the encounter.

As the regiment continued their trek across Whiterun’s tundra, the apprentice couldn’t help but find his memories drifting back to his encounter at Kynesgrove. The very thought of a dragon crawling out of its grave clawed at the back of his mind and flooded his consciousness. As his pulse raced from the stimulant effects of the draught, it reminded him of his own blood-curdling screams, calling out his last patron’s name with his heart nearly beating out of his chest.

  
It became fresh in his memory, how the walls of Braidwood Inn had shaken with an otherworldly tremor, sloshing the mead out of his cup and onto his patron’s lap. The wooden plates and metal tankards had clattered against the tables for just a mere moment before the room had become still, once again.

The few other guests at the tavern, laymen and women, had retreated beneath the rickety wooden beams and tables in the room. Those who had been alerted by the shock had all cowered, save for a Dunmer mage who had immediately rushed out of the building, exclaiming something about magical wards and the mines collapsing.

That had been the moment when his patron stood up and left his side to follow the Dunmer out the door. Marcurio had thought his patron had gone mad at the time. Then again, he had always thought of his patron that way since the day they had first met. Before he could protest, his patron had already turned back and had grabbed him by the wrist. With the fire of adventure burning in those tireless eyes, his patron had tugged on his arm, insisting that they investigate together. Once more, into _danger_.

_“SLEN— TIID VO!”_ He recalled the haunting, guttural roar that echoed from a distance.

They had traced it to an ancient burial mound in the outskirts of the settlement. Somewhere in the mountains, by a small farm at the edge of the mining town, a breathing skeletal dragon the size of a house had crept out of its grave. The tips of its gargantuan wings of bone plowed through the long-unturned earth of its ancient cairn, as sparse wisps of flesh and scale began to materialize around the remains.  
He remembered the mighty, black dragon that had circled above their heads, swooping down by the ancient grave. Its unfurled wings, dark as midnight, had cast a shadow beneath its presence, obstructing the light of both Masser and Secunda.

“ _Sahloknir, krii daar joorre!_ ” The booming voice had echoed in the skies, issuing the command to kill the mortals that stood before its path.

The pair of massive, black wings beat a whirlwind against the ground, blowing specks of dirt into the eyes of the mercenary and his patron. Then, the light of the moons had returned into view, revealing a glint at the edge of a blade. In the midst of the storm, the mighty, black dragon had disappeared over the mountain peaks. From behind an ancient stone at the edge of the cairn, the mercenary had begun to charge his most powerful spell, afraid of what had been yet to come.

Lightning had flashed and crackled between his fingertips, as beads of sweat had trickled down his brow. What had once been a pile of bones had become a dragon, in the flesh. The beast had stood above the person who had once bought Marcurio’s loyalty, but had since earned his trust and compassion. Though, he had always been unwilling to admit the most latter.

Soon, the dragon’s dormant Voice had awakened. He had witnessed his patron’s blade poised against its throat. The creature’s neck, lined with huge spikes like silver needles, had craned back, ready to strike with the jagged teeth it had bared with the slight parting of its scaly jaw.

He had watched as the searing gaze of his patron’s fearless eyes had met the icy, silver glare of the resurrected dragon. The two souls, mortal and _dovah_ , had faced each other with an unwavering intent to kill. In a blood-curdling scream, the mercenary had called out his patron’s name with his heart nearly beating out of his chest. That had been many moons ago, back in that unassuming little mining settlement up the mountains of Eastmarch. Kynesgrove, where the sacred winds of Kynareth blew.

Soon, the ruins of the watchtower appeared in the horizon, calling the wizard’s attention back to the present threat. A tattered, yellow banner billowed in the freezing wind, held between the stones of the dilapidated walls. The emblematic horse of Whiterun gazed upon the approaching militia from the faded banner it was printed on. Though the tower was run down, as many of Skyrim’s old forts had been, the walls at its core remained staunch over centuries worth of battles.

Irileth raised a hand, signaling her men to a halt. She drew her blade and surveyed the vast plains from behind a ledge, as the line of guardsmen immediately behind her followed suit. The adjacent road was blocked by a smoldering wooden cart, toppled over, with blackened chests and barrels spilled across the frosted cobblestone. A few burnt corpses, including that of a horse, littered the ground in odd, contorted positions.

One looked as if it was kneeling with its hands in supplication, pleading for mercy before having been burned to a crisp. The charred, leathery remains still sizzled from the heat of dragon fire. Its revolting bitter scent, like flesh grilling at Namira’s altar, wafted past those who dared to walk by.

It invaded Marcurio’s senses, and he took a few shallow coughs to clear his breath of the stench. _Sweet Julianos_ , the smell never changed. He tried to visualize fresh venison chops roasting over a campfire to deflect the memories, but it somehow made his stomach turn even more. _This_ is why he preferred his shock spells over fire, nowadays.

“No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he's been here,” the housecarl stated the _obvious_. “I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened. And if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere. Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what to expect.”

“Yes, housecarl!” The guardsmen moved out, splitting into pairs and smaller groups.

Irileth approached the watchtower with a pair of guards flanking each of her sides, and Marcurio stayed at her tail. As soon as they reached the tower’s entrance, they were stopped by a guardsman limping out of the ruins. His chainmail cuirass sported a gaping hole in its side, where it seemed like a claw had struck, revealing a long laceration that bore into his flesh. What was left of his tabard had been soaked in blood, and his helm was gone. In its place was a petrified countenance, pale with fear, yet darkened with soot.

“No! Get back! It's still here somewhere!” He warned the reinforcements in between labored breaths.

“Guardsman! What happened here? Where's this dragon? Quickly now!” Irileth demanded.

“Last thing I saw, it went that way,” the injured guardsman pointed a finger far over Irileth’s shoulder, clutching his wound with a free hand.

“Some civilians were caught in the crossfire, so Jergen and I led them inside the tower to hide until it’s safe. The dragon just came swooping down and breathed fire—“ He fell silent as his jaw dropped, wide open.

Soon, the looming shadow of a beast was cast over the plains. A guttural roar resounded through the air, and a pair of dark, silver wings descended over everyone’s heads. Among the occasional screams of horror, hushed and ominous chatter could be heard amongst Whiterun’s guards. The guardsman who had warned Irileth began to tremble before he was able find his words again.

“By Ysmir! It’s back!” The injured guardsman exclaimed as he cowered into the ruins. The dragon stalked the perimeter of the watchtower, unleashing its breath of fire onto the unfortunate mortals that stood beneath its path. It was an all too familiar sight for Marcurio, and Irileth seemed to be no stranger to the beast as well. Rumor had it that the dragon they faced was the very same that Irileth herself had slain two seasons past.

“Everyone, get in position! Archers!” Irileth commanded the guards.

“Yes, housecarl!” They saluted in response, and carried out her bidding.

The flourish of blades unsheathing and spells charging filled the battlefield. Irileth stood her ground and delegated her troops, spouting each command with seemingly rehearsed confidence that one would expect from a Legionary officer. Marcurio gave her an affirmative nod, accepting her command to lead a small detachment of archers up the tower for the offensive strike. Irileth and the remaining guards kept their positions on the ground as she rallied her troops to protect the injured and the civilians caught in the line of fire. This time, Whiterun knew what they were dealing with.

_“Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!”_ The dragon growled as it swept past the tower. From his limited understanding of _Dovahzul_ , Marcurio recognized the mention of an _overlord_ and mentally noted the phrase. Soon, the battlecries of men and women slurred with Irileth’s commands, alongside the resonant growls of the dragon’s spoken taunts.

“Fire! Make every arrow count!” Irileth shouted over the chaos, across the plains.

The whistling of arrows flying overhead joined in the cacophony. Many shots had missed, into the sky and out of sight, and many that struck were simply deflected off the dragon’s seemingly impenetrable hide. A few lucky shots managed to wedge in between the dragon’s scales. A few others managed to land a hit on its underbelly as the beast flew overhead.

Amidst the battlecries, Marcurio could hear the agonized groans of the wounded as he made his way into the tower. A trail of archers followed behind his back. The survivors all huddled beneath the spiraling staircase within the tower’s walls, helplessly doing what they could to nurse each other back to relative health.

Small vials of healing potions, hesitantly rationed amongst the decommissioned guards, were passed along the mass of ruined armor and bleeding flesh. Makeshift bandages were ripped from the hems of tabards and skirts, clumsily wrapped around scorching burns by unskilled, trembling hands. As he ascended the foot of the stairway, Marcurio’s gaze was particularly drawn to a fellow Imperial, a young man dressed in a commoner’s garb, all alone in a corner beneath the steps. The survivor’s tanned skin had become devoid of warmth as he had balled up like a child, hyperventilating in a cold sweat.

As Marcurio eyed his pitiful kinsman, he wanted to put his faith in the walls and believe the survivors would be safe from the dragon fire beneath the stone. However, he knew they couldn’t stay there for long as the stone crumbled to each tremor from the ensuing battle. He began to charge a spell in his hand as he scurried up the rest of the stairway with his squadron.

Once he had reached the top, a faceless guard had just landed against one of the tower’s crenellations. The guardsman’s bones made an ungodly noise as they crushed flat against the stone upon impact. Shattered ribs likely punctured his lungs as his final scream was silenced. In a flash, the body recoiled into a rag-dolling heap of blood and flesh, collapsing onto the ground below and painting the tower’s walls in deep crimson. It was a brutal sight, and Marcurio had to shut his eyes and turn his head away.

It seemed that the dragon had taken the guardsman by its claws in one fell swoop, like a hawk catching its prey, dropping the poor soul from at least forty feet into the sky. And so the dragons have _learned_ to abuse the physical laws and mechanics of Nirn, Marcurio noted with eyes held shut, knowing Farengar would get a kick out of that one. Behind him, one of his archers keeled over, looking as if he was about to retch at the sight of the gore-stained crenel.

He allowed himself and the squadron just a moment of recollection before they all assumed their positions atop the parapet, as outlined by Irileth during their prior briefing at Dragonsreach. The mage peered at the chaos below, and he noticed the beast descend near the housecarl’s formation just a few paces off the tower’s base. The dragon rhythmically flapped its wings as if it was wading in the air, floating above the plains as it turned its attention to Irileth herself. With lighting ready to strike in one hand, Marcurio used the other to cue his squadron to aim.

A slew of arrows peppered the beast from above as a violent chain of lightning struck directly from the parapet. The dragon released a pained roar before it pulled its head back, bracing for the recoil from its own power. With infernal rage, its beady eyes gazed down upon the ashen hand that was said to have slain it once before. As its wings arched against its sides, the dragon began to open its maw.

“ _YOL_ —“

“ _IRILETH!_ ” The mage hastily called from the top of his tower.

“— _TOOR SHUL_!”

Though the housecarl likely didn’t hear him, she had already leaped to the side and crouched behind a dirt ledge, barely dodging the gout of dragon fire as it scorched the earth where she had once stood. Most of the guards surrounding her had already dispersed at her cue before the flames struck, though not all managed to escape the conflagration. It seemed the rumors were true that she had once _danced_ with a _dovah._

As Irileth scrambled back on her feet and tended to her regiment, the dragon took up flight, once again. Even on wounded wings, the dragon managed to soar in fluid patterns over the low plains, swifter than any of the archers could accurately lock on their erratic target.

Fortunately for Marcurio, lightning wasn’t as hard to aim as a bow. He charged at the dark, silver beast in carefully timed bursts, mindful to conserve his dwindling pool of magicka. As the beast made its rounds through the sky, the Mages took a deep breath and drew from his limited reserves. He began to focus a controlled moiety of his power onto the palm of each hand, counting each beat of the dragon’s wings.

_One, two, three._ In the midst of his spells charging sluggishly, he silently cursed that damn Farengar for his disorganization. Without the potent enchantments of his usual robes, Marcurio could only draw a scant bit of magicka from his surroundings at a time. As he tried to steady his aim, the dragon grazed past another squadron of guards, threatening them with a snap of its wide-open jaw.

_Four, five, six_. He should have been able to garner enough energy to hurl a _constant_ barrage of lightning at the damn beast long ago. With another flap of the dragon’s wings, he braced himself as the spell in his hand started brimming with intensity. He took a step back to steady his footing, lest the force his own spells should rebound against him.

_Seven, eight, nine._ On the next beat, he unleashed a powerful jolt of energy at his unsteady target. As he planted his weight down into his widened stance, a blinding flare of lightning briefly illuminated the cloudy dusk, and the dragon’s wings spasmed in midair. The beast began to lose altitude as the shocks dissipated from its body.

With every step he took, maneuvering across his limited space upon the parapet, he launched a series of his attacks with a choreographed focus. His patron had once told him that to fight a dragon was akin to a dance with death. Though he was no dancer, it began to make more sense to him with each new dragon he had faced. Unlike men and mer in the flurrying heat of combat, dragons were predictable creatures, and there was an almost rhythmic nature to their attacks.

With each labored flap of its stiffening wings, the dragon regained its altitude and began to make its way towards the edge of the tower. As the mage found his next opening, the beast roared in agitation as a ball of arcane fire struck the jagged crest on its back. Soon, with every lick of flame he conjured between his fingertips, he felt his breath grow heavier as his magicka steadily drained. The next bolt of fire he launched missed by a long shot as the dragon took a sudden dive.

A gust of wind almost knocked him back as the creature swooped over his head and perched itself on the edge of the tower’s walls. The impact of the landing shook the vicinity, staggering the mage and most of his archers onto their knees, as the dragon’s massive claws crushed and pierced into the stone crenellations. The fearful cries of survivors rose from within the tower. Prayers were uttered, and sets of widened eyes could be seen through the slits on the guardsmen’s masked helms.

  
“Take cover! Into the tower, _now!_ ” Marcurio called out to his detachment, attempting to channel the voice of the Emperor. Few of the guards managed to hoist themselves up and made their way down the steps.

  
As the mage clambered back onto his feet, he audibly swallowed his doubt and dusted off his robes above his weakening knees. Careful not to squander the last of his power, he cast a protective spell upon himself in anticipation. The loud, telltale snap of Alteration magic disturbed the air as an aura of glowing, green fractals enveloped his clothes and skin. He pointed a finger inches away from the dragon’s fuming snout, as an ember glow flickered in the hand behind his back.

“So... you think... you can take... on a _master_ of the arcane?” Between gasping breaths, the apprentice taunted the beast with the faintest quiver in his voice. He looked up at the dragon with a piercing glare, secretly hoping his bravado would confound his adversary.

The dragon simply huffed a breath into the mortal’s clammy face, blowing wisps of his dusty hair into his eyes. As he blinked the fuzz away, the beast emitted a low rumble from its maw, which soon began to sound like the creature’s bastardized idea of laughter.

Marcurio’s doubt tossed around in his gut and threatened to rise back up his throat. Oh, how the tables have _turned_. Thrown aback, he couldn’t help but join in with his own nervous chuckling as he dispelled the ball of fire he had condensed in the palm of his hand.

Their twisted chorus of laughter drowned out the agonized cries of the survivors, rising from the stone beneath their feet as they beseeched Stendarr for mercy. Oh, how the two of them _laughed_ and laughed as distant arrows simply bounced off the dragon’s scales. Then, the dragon’s Voice evolved into a boisterous growl that sent a mild rumble down the tower’s walls. The cries grew louder, and the prayers turned into an inarticulate gushing of words.

Out of the sheer absurdity of his predicament, the mage found himself lost in his unending stream of hollow laughter, but the dragon wasn’t laughing anymore. The ferocious _dovah_ tensed up its wings and looked him in his amber eyes as words formed through its cage-like fangs.

“Foolish _joor,_ ” The dragon said to its prey as the heat of its breath struck his pallid skin. “I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!”

Then, the creature took a brief pause as it hunched it’s neck over, as if to examine the mortal who dared to laugh in its face. A distorted sound began to form at the bottom of its throat, gathering an inferno within. The dragon began to unfurl its wings and lift its chest, craning its neck up and back, as it opened its gaping maw. Before Marcurio could make his next move, he could only stare at the dragon, rising again before him as he braced himself for the heat of its wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own TESV: Skyrim, any of the characters mentioned (except any OCs), or any NPC dialogue that may be referenced above. Skyrim belongs to the Nords— I mean, Bethesda.
> 
> A/N: Not as much sass in this chapter compared to the last one, but I tried to put it where it would fit. I’m relatively new to writing combat scenes, so please let me know how it could use some work. The flashback sequence seems to be a bit all over the place, too, so I’d appreciate it if anyone would let me know how I could improve upon it. Feedback always appreciated, especially constructive criticism!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Burdens They Carry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author almost kills off the narrator two chapters into the story, but doesn’t. Marcurio wakes up to a pretty face and befriends a nervous wreck, who thinks he’s a skooma dealer. Meanwhile, Lydia gets to play nurse but doesn’t know what a healing spell is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning— Graphic depictions of injuries and second-degree burns, and panic. Some stuttering in the dialogue, so sorry if it’s hard to read.

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Burdens They Carry**

* * *

The stone was cold as ice, and he felt the jagged edges of the steps digging into his ribs and spine. But in his completely limp state, being sprawled across the spiral staircase of the watchtower felt oddly comfortable, much like the stone beds of Markarth. Everything felt heavy, yet every inch of his skin was in scorching pain. His vision was reduced to mere blurs of dim light, and his ears buzzed in a false silence. A gentle stream hot blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

That was how Marcurio realized he wasn’t dead yet. The last thing he could recall was standing frozen before a pair of silver eyes, riding out a storm of flames with a steadfast ward in one hand and a swirling glow of golden light in the other. He remembered the agonizing numbness of his flesh healing as it simultaneously disintegrated in the gout of fire.

He could feel every beat of his heart. It was slow, but it was there. With every shallow breath he took, he caught a whiff of his own injuries. They reeked of rancid venison burning at the spit, and it was almost unbearable. Soon, the blurs in his vision began to form into recognizable colors, and an ethereal hum filled the silence.

“ _...hear me?_ ”

Words began to piece together as the distorted noise echoed in his head.

“ _Can you hear me?_ ”

The voice still seemed so distant and unfamiliar, yet soothing. He wanted to reach his hand out and touch the face of that disembodied voice which called to him, if it had one, but his arms fell heavy by his sides.

His vision finally began to clear as he carefully blinked. He was met with a pair of deep-green eyes looking straight into his befuddled gaze, less than an arm’s length away. A cascade of dark brown hair fell from one side of a figure’s shoulders, brushing against his cheek with an intense sting from his superficial burns.

He looked down, past the singed hairs on his chin. His clothes were mostly intact, as was his long hair, just burnt a couple inches shorter. The robes that once covered his wrists and fell to his ankles were blackened at the hems, reduced to a short sleeved mess that fell to his knees. His exposed limbs were blistered and had missing patches of skin that stung in the cold air.

“Oh, thank the _Nine_ —I mean, Eight,” a woman exclaimed before she corrected herself, absentmindedly tugging and squeezing Marcurio’s raw-skinned hand.

“ _Ach_!” He weakly choked in agony, instinctively yanking his hand from her grasp.

In his daze, he studied the face that hovered above his own. Full lips rested under a thin, symmetrical nose. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones, a chiseled yet feminine jaw framed a pale expression. A layer of soot caked in sweat had built up near the finest hairs at the edges of a furrowed brow, tainting the fair skin that faintly glowed under the tower’s shadow. It was the face of a Nord woman, one he didn’t recognize.

“Oh. My apologies, sir,” the woman said, spouting the honorific with mechanical respect. Then, he realized that she had been cradling his limb to apply a salve to his burns. Despite its oily warmth, it felt soothing over his flaking skin that otherwise burned like actual dragon fire. Though he scowled at her, he gently nudged his hand back towards the woman, prompting her to continue her work.

Somehow, the woman caught on to his cues, and she rested his searing red arm on her lap. After working with the salve up to his elbow, she lifted a water skin to his chapped and faded lips. It stung like thousand needles, but the tiny sips filled his body with a cooling relief.

“How long... was I ... out?” He managed to ask her between labored breaths, feeling his chest burning and heaving with each utterance.

“Not long at all, sir. Just a few moments, I’d say,” The woman replied, applying the salve with delicate strokes over a large, yellowing blister on the back of his hand. He was glad to hear that his consciousness hadn’t left him for long. If that dragon was still out there, Whiterun needed his arcane skills to stand a fair chance.

“I hope... that...” He began to say as he tried to prop himself up on his free arm. “I didn’t... miss— _oof!”_ An intense, shooting pain rose to his chest and shoulders as his head nearly collapsed onto the stone.

“Be careful, sir!” The woman warned as she caught him by the shoulders and laid his head back down onto the steps. “Your injuries are still fresh.”

He said nothing as she continued to dress his wounds with little skill. With her gauntleted hands, she wrapped a strip of her own tabard in an awkward spiral around his forearm. Oozing patches of red peered through the dog-eared windows of the bright yellow fabric. From where he lay, he recognized Whiterun’s uniform sash draped over the chainmail encasing her bulky figure. The tip of a wooden longbow and the fletchings of steel arrows stuck out from over her broad shoulders.

She was a guardswoman, which explained the honorifics. Perhaps she was one of Irileth’s troops. Then, it would be likely that she had retreated into the tower after a defense gone awry. The defense must have gone awry. With a faint gasp, the mage tried to jerk himself up, despite the guardswoman’s protests.

“Sir—“

“It’s— _augh_ —nothing...” He told her, clutching his ribs as they violently throbbed. Channeling energy onto his hand, he commanded the flesh by his rib to heal, but he could only conjure enough warmth to mildly dull the pain.

“Irileth... Were you with her? What’s... the situation... right now?” He forced out.

“No, sir. I was one of the archers from your detachment,” the guardswoman replied, almost in a venomous drawl.

So, she was one of _his_ troops. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t recognize any of the guards by their faces, as they were usually covered. Marcurio wondered how many times she had rolled her eyes at his orders from the shadow of her helm. Oh, they would make _great_ _friends_ if he wasn’t her superior.

“Remind me... your name?” The mage asked her. He recalled how there were two women assigned to his squadron, though he had only spoken with them once, during their briefing with Irileth.

“Lydia, sir,” the guardswoman replied blankly.

“Lyd— _iaaahaa_...” He moaned in pain as Lydia jerked a bandage a bit too tightly around his wrist. Her expression made it seem like an accident.

“The dragon... Did everyone... else make it?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded. “Thanks to your... _courageous display_ back there, we all managed to retreat before our formation was set ablaze.”

“Good...to hear,” Marcurio noticed her eyes drift as she spoke of that mindless stunt he had pulled. In retrospect, he asked himself what kind of _idiot_ would laugh in the face of a _dovah_ ; he could only name one from the top of his head, and he decided that his last patron had been a bad influence on him. Still, he was relieved that his own recklessness had somehow preserved the lives of his men.

“There were...six of you. Where’s... the rest... of the squadron?” He asked Lydia, still gasping weakly with every ache, trying to recount each of the guards who had followed him into the fray.

“Aenar, Maaike, and Tor were unharmed, sir,” In elation, the guardswoman reported the slurry of names that had no faces.

“Housecarl Irileth had called them to join her in the defense and told me to await further instruction, but...” She trailed off into silence.

“The others?”

”Sir, Rolund and Bjorn got caught at the edge of the fire and were badly injured,” she continued with a more somber tone.

“I see,” Marcurio lamented as he darted his gaze all around, watching the survivors cower in silence along the walls. “I’ll try... to help... heal.”

“But, sir, you’re still wounded—“

Just then, a ground-shaking roar sent everyone a grim reminder of the present threat. The dragon was still out there. As the weight of his injuries pinned him against the stone steps, Marcurio began to feel the burden of all the souls who had sought refuge beneath the crumbling watchtower. Pushing his back up against a wall, he tried to cast a healing spell over his singed flesh with minimal success.

“ _Orders_ , Lydia,” he stressed. “Tell Irileth... I’ll join her... soon as I can,” he gritted through his teeth.

He couldn’t afford to waste any more time. All he needed was a bit more magicka, then perhaps he could be in fighting shape again. Using his barely patched up hand, he fumbled around to find his satchel, hoping its contents remained intact in the blaze.

“My bag... the blue bottle... Is it... still there?”

He felt something poking around the weight over his outer thigh as he heard the rustling of paper being shifted about. At least his notes and scrolls hadn’t been reduced to ash, thanks to Farengar’s enchantments. Soon, the mage heard a clink as Lydia lifted a translucent blue phial the size of a wine bottle out of the clutter.

“Aye, sir,” she said, with a hint of confusion.

“Bring it... here,” he commanded. Lydia helped him stay seated up and brought the phial’s rim to his lips. It was hard to swallow the mixture’s alkaline taste, its slippery feel, and the way it stung the inside of his mouth. Though that particular potion, which he had been saving for desperate times, had a sweet undertone that made it just barely palatable.

As soon as he took the first gulp, he could feel his reserves of magicka gradually replenishing. With a hand to his chest, he began to recite an incantation as streams of golden light swirled from his palms and around his core.

“I’ll just... take a few minutes,” he uttered, drowning halfway into his dose as he hovered the swirling light over his most severe injuries. They continued to sting, even under the warmth of his restorative light.

“A _healing spell_? Are you a priest?” Lydia said, wide eyed. He responded to her asinine question with a dead-pan smirk, unable to tell if she was genuinely confused or plain jesting.

Soon enough, his agonizing pain eased into a heavy fatigue as the glow of his spell enveloped his whole body. The angry blisters on his tanned skin slowly faded, then flushed into bright red patches like sunburn. He hobbled back onto his feet with Lydia supporting his weight.

“Now... join Irileth in the defense,” he commanded, gradually beginning to catch his breath. “Tell her... I’ll be out soon.”

“Very well, court wizard,” Lydia gave him a hesitant salute before she donned her faceless helm and scurried out the tower, past the cowering masses.

The mage kept leaning against the wall until he got enough blood back into his head to shrug the dizziness away. Then, his breathing returned to normal as he cast another quick healing spell on himself. Sliding past the wall and down the spiral, he called out to Rolund and Bjorn among those hiding behind the stairway.

Soon, he found the pair of burly Nord guardsmen lying next to each other, each curled up in agony and moaning between their shallow breaths. He could smell seared flesh and hair under the chainmail, and he caught a glance of furious blisters over the edge of a fur boot. Though their injuries were severe, they were fortunately nowhere near as bad as what Marcurio’s had been. It was nothing his spells couldn’t handle, but it would still leave him too drained to fight for another while.

He knelt between the two guardsmen on one knee, and he held his hands over one of them, allowing his restorative light to swirl around the injuries. Then, he turned to the other guardsman to do the same. In short minutes, their searing, red wounds closed into gnarly, pink scars. As the mage worked on his men, he noticed another survivor watching him from nearby. It was the pitiful Imperial, still hugging himself into a pallid, shivering ball and staring at him with glassy, hazel eyes.

Marcurio averted his gaze and focused on his convalescents, making sure their breathing became steady and that their pulses remained strong. With an extra touch of his light, most of their scars soon faded back into fully intact skin. He asked if they could stand, or walk, then handed each of them a vial of healing potion to finish the work his spells couldn’t handle. Rolund and Bjorn took turns clasping his forearms and expressing their gratitude before they decided they were fit to return to the battlefield.

Rolund had been in a worse condition and was more wary of magic, so it took a him bit more time to compose himself. Marcurio had to spend some extra time and magicka on him due to his body’s slight resistance to the healing spells. The guardsman even needed an additional vial of potion and a touch of a calm spell before the mage could confidently send him back into action.

“Next time, _do_ _try_ to be more careful,” Marcurio drawled in a half-scolding manner as he bid his men godspeed.

“Aye, court wizard,” Bjorn gave him a quick salute before he charged out of the tower with a bow in hand and his legs, good as new.

Once he was done, Marcurio collapsed back into a seat beneath the stairway as he tried to catch his breath again. Using his strongest healing spell on himself, twice in succession, had been exhausting enough. Tending the wounds of two other men of a different built and stock than his own, on top of that, was more healing than he ever had to do before.

He felt the back of his neck beginning to throb as his legs began to grow heavier, fatiguing from his dangerously low reserves of magicka. The mage reached into his satchel for the blue phial and poured what was left of the bittersweet draught down his throat. It helped a bit, but soon, a queue of guards and commoners funneled from all sides of the wall and towards his corner of the tower. The crowd had sensed a healer in their midst. _Oh, Dibella’s holy bosoms_ , of all times!

He had to turn the majority away, since he couldn’t do much for them in his current state. However, he agreed to at least try to stabilize the most severe cases among them, with what little energy he had.

Drained from the demands, it would take a while before he could muster up enough magicka to rejoin the fight. So, Marcurio pulled his journal and quill out of his bag to start documenting his report for Farengar. As he tried to ignore the roars and battlecries from outside, he began to scribble notes of the dragon’s flight patterns. Then, he suddenly recalled Irileth’s words. There had been talk of how the dragon they fought was the same one she had slain, back from the dead. Surely, Farengar would want him to interview the witnesses at some point, once the threat had been dissolved.

He looked up from his notes, and saw the empty stare of his kinsman from the corner of his eye. The Imperial had been one of the few survivors who hadn’t approached him for healing after they had witnessed him with the two guardsmen, yet he looked like he could use it the most.

Marcurio couldn’t tell what possessed him to walk up to the commoner and find a seat next to the human cocoon. Perhaps he wanted to pry about what the commoner witnessed during the alleged resurrection, or maybe he just felt pity for the wreck. Either way, he wasn’t sure how to start. So, he gave the man a warm, yet exhausted, grin.

“Divines smile on you, kinsman,” Marcurio greeted him.

The commoner shuddered at the mage, seemingly wary of his arrival. Marcurio wasn’t sure how to respond, but perhaps if he offered some help, the man could help him back as a witness. The mage pulled a scroll out of the pocket of his satchel and held it between his fingers. He didn’t need his inner magicka to use one of those.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said in hushed tones. “If I may, I got a little something to help you take the edge off.”

“N-no... no th-thanks...” The commoner looked away from him as he finally spoke up. Then, he inched away from the strange soldier in burnt robes, who might be offering him illicit potions and reagents.

“Do I look like some skooma rat to you? I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort,” the mage gently waved the scroll before the commoner’s face and gave him a friendly, reassuring laugh. “Trust me, I’m a wizard.”

He knew his latter claim wouldn’t give much comfort to the local Nords, but it seemed to work on his kinsman.

“O-okay,” the commoner said in response as his voice trembled with his body.

“Now, close your eyes and take a deep breath. You don’t have to, but I find that it makes things easier,” Marcurio instructed him as he opened the scroll and looked over its glyphs and runes. He began to read the incantation aloud as his hands began to glow with a bright, turquoise aura.

“And your name, kinsman?” He had paused mid-chant and asked the commoner as his hands maintained the glow.

“Ch-Cesare. Ces... Cesare T-Tre-Trepidus,” the commoner remained silent before he struggled to respond through his tremors.

“ _Cesare_...” The mage repeated the name in a soft, breathy purr, almost as if it was part of his incantation.

He hovered his hands inches away from the commoner’s chest and began to cast the aura upon him. Cesare began to glow with the same colored light, but it was faint and pulsing. Then, Marcurio warned the man of his impending touch before he placed both his hands on Cesare’s trembling shoulders. Gently, he slid them down to his elbows as he continued to chant the words off the scroll in a whisper.

“ _Pax. Quies. Tranquillitas.”_

The mage’s hands caressed the commoner’s arms back up towards his tightening neck and shoulders. He felt the other man’s rapid breaths begin to subside as he continued to mouth the words. Soon, the turquoise glow that enveloped Cesare’s body grew bright and steady. The mage slowly crept his hands towards the commoner’s wrists, sending shivers up his own spine as the magic flowed between the two beings.

“ _Respirare,_ ” he chanted off the scroll in a quiet command, and Cesare instinctively took a slow, deep breath in response. By then, Marcurio had clasped both the commoner’s hands between his own, and the scroll had disintegrated to ash.

“Better?” The mage asked.

Cesare slowly nodded his head, completely pacified. His body was still and his muscles had been freed from their tension. His eyelids fell soft, and he released a long, breathy sigh.

“Thank you...” He said sheepishly as he looked up at the mage. His hazel eyes, once glassy and blood-shot with horrified tears, looked somewhat rested under the effects of the spell. They even seemed warm and shiny behind the faint aura.

“Glad to help,” the mage said, grinning once again. “I’m Marcurio, by the way. Apprentice court wizard of Whiterun. A pleasure meeting you, Cesare.”

“Likewise,” Cesare briefly smiled back at him for the first time, allowing his limbs to stretch out, no longer rocking in a fetal position. He looked away and said no other word for a while. Perhaps conversation wasn’t his strong suit.

Just then, a powerful impact caused another tremor in the walls, stronger than the ones before. The survivors in hiding shied away from the quaking walls and tightly huddled amongst themselves with their hands shielding the backs of their heads, crying out to the skies.

Cesare merely flinched before took another deep breath, and he crumpled the hem of his tunic in his blanching knuckles. The thin veil of Marcurio’s spell was the only thing keeping him from falling into another fit of panic. As the mage peered through one of the tower’s arrow loops, he witnessed the massive form of the dragon, finally grounded, in a standoff with the housecarl’s men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, all the main characters got introduced! The Dovahkiin’s name is pronounced Cheh-zar-eh. And yes, his last name means ‘fear.’ He’s based on a non-combat artificer/support build who relies on followers that I tried to attempt once. I took some creative license with how spellcasting works for dramatic effect. Also, I have this headcanon that Imperials spoke some language similar to Latin, hence the incantations for the Scroll of Pacify. Pulled it out of google translate, so grammar is likely off. Not necessarily the most lore friendly, but it’s fanfiction, after all.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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